Faithless
by Sancho ni Munraito
Summary: There exists a dark, sinister force that has enveloped our world, trapping the nations in its organic web. Its evil plan? To play a game. But what exactly is this game, and how will it end? SpaBel is in the third chapter!
1. Introduction to a Game

**(Story based off fanofmusic9292's fanfic, 'Game of Life'. It's as awesome as she is [Prussia level awesome], so go read it! Read her other fanfics, too, while you're at it. :D)**

Through the ubiquitous, murky shadows, a soft but clear creaking sound penetrated. Carefully, an unseen wooden door stepped aside to allow a lanky Thing to walk in.

_Clip._

_Clop._

_Clip._

_Clop._

Resounding footsteps after, everything went silent once more. That is, until the Thing decided to speak.

"Hello there, my dears," it said.

Pausing, as though expectant of a reply, it soon continued with, "How lovely it is of all of you to join me."

_Clip._

_Clop._

_Clip._

_Clop._

The Thing was pacing now, fumbling for words to continue his ridiculous, failing soliloquy. In the end, however, It merely decided to surge right down to business.

"That's enough of small talk, me thinks," it said, possibly in an attempt to be cute, "Let us begin."

_Thunk_.

A beam of light encircled a section of the room, and the Thing could be heard skipping over to a spot close to the blinding luminous spot. With the newfound brightness, it could clearly be seen that the room held an electronic globe within its walls. The Thing, unfortunately, had made certain that it hadn't went too close to the light for its identity to be known.

"This here," said the Thing, "Is a specialised globe holding captive a few of your favourite, fickle nations." Then, under Its breath, muttered, "Blithering idiots..." The Thing then went on to describe the rules of the little "game" it had on.

"Now, you may be wondering why I've captured your little countries and, possibly, how," droned the Thing, and began pacing once more. "The answer to both questions is simple. I caught them in the beginning of this particular world, making them believe they had existed from the dawn of time and the world they lived in was not, in fact, somebody else's plaything. In this case, my plaything." Stated the Thing in a bored, and, frankly, irritated manner; as though it were talking to kindergarteners whose minds were too feeble to comprehend a word it was saying. Moving on, it said, "As for why I did it," the Thing paused too release a cackle, "I am bored."

Moments passed before the Thing reopened its mouth, speaking in a surprised tone. "Now don't get me wrong," said it, "I don't usually trifle with this world's annoying, frivolous matters, but one does get bored, you know?" After this, it relapsed into its earlier tune of explanation.

"But, as questions beget questions, you must now be wondering why on earth-to use one of your phrases-would I be telling you this." It made swishing sounds, probably by moving its arms(?) around expressively. "Why would I, the great lifeform which rules over this tiny kingdom, bestow so much information into your little brains?" Questioned the Thing, mockingly. "Simple, dear reader. You're going to help me play my game."

"The rules are simple." It had begun pacing once more, ignoring the fact that maybe its audience might not want to take part in its schemes, "Just fill out this form and give it to my slave." Flinging a piece of paper into the light, the Thing walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him. A second figure scuttled in, soon after, and a higher voice echoed across the walls.

"Uh... Hello, everyone. I know the Master isn't good with instructions, so I'll just expand upon what you're to do." Said the voice, notably female.

"Basically, what we have here," she picked up the discarded paper, "Is a form you must fill out if you wish to play. It looks something like this."

_Woosh!_

A long wooden whiteboard was yanked from somewhere in the darkness, and the female promptly wrote something afore disappearing back into the shadows. What she wrote looked something like this:

Name:

Pairing:

Light/Dark:

Number:

"I don't really know what's going on, but do fill it out and have fun!" Yelled the lady afore she fled the scene.

_Thunk_.

The light went off and the room was plunged into darkness again...

**Disclaimer: NOTHING belongs to me, thank you! **

**A.N.: Hello, everyone, and thank you for clicking on this fic. This is an 'interactive fic', as I like to call it, meaning I rely solely on your reviews. All you have to do is fill up the small list my friend has written on the blackboard and post it as a review. **

**Example:**

**Name: Sancho ni Munraito**

**Pairing: PruHun (Prussia x Hungary)**

**Light/Dark: Dark**

**Number: 88**

**That's it. Please keep the pairings hetero because (1) I'm trying to spread Hetero!Talia love and (2) I'm writing this at home, in front of my parents. Nyotalias are accepted. The numbers and light/dark will be explained later, so please be patient. Numbers are to be kept within three digits, please, and light/dark can be filled as 'neutral'. It doesn't actually matter. The format for the form MAY change later but I'll let you guys know if it ever does. Have fun and please review!**

**P.S. Sorry about the delay with 'Little Matchmaker Monaco'... I'm still searching for inspiration which I'll hopefully find by doing this**.


	2. Susanrocksy: SwissLiech

**A.N: For reasons explained in further detail at the bottom, this fanfic contains a few lines from Ron Pope's song '****_A Drop in the Ocean,' _****so, I suppose, it's nicer to listen to it while you read. Hope you enjoy!**

Atop a hill, flourishing with dancing blades of emerald grass; painted by the soft, warm glow of the golden sunshine, which played with the scintillating waters of the lake beside the mound; and blessed by the caress of twirling winds, sat a girl.

She was the epitome of all things beautifully pure, with her sparkling, turquoise hued eyes, swaying locks of gold, and petite, slim fingers; which were, currently, expertly weaving a simple crown of blooming blossoms. A serene smile adorned her fair face, making her appear all the more angelic than she already was. Like a porcelain cherub.

At a first, untrained glance, she might have appeared simple, plain, and ordinary; but she wasn't any of these things, and to find a girl as intelligent, caring, or tactfully honest as she was would be bordering on the verge of impossibility. Perhaps this was one of the reasons why he couldn't bear the thought of parting with her. With his sister, Liechtenstein.

When Switzerland first met Liechtenstein, he was coarse, cold, and seemingly uncaring. He knew that, of course, but made no effort to correct himself. He didn't have a reason to. So many times, so many times... So may times had he allowed himself to open himself to 'friends'. Friends that were now old and living close by, yet, they were friends he hadn't seen in years. For, he believed, all of his trust had been misplaced and left him broken. What made Liechtenstein any different? To be honest, he didn't know. However, he did know one thing. The day he had reached out to that battered, ragged, formerly Austrian noblewoman; was the day someone had created ripples in his ocean of calm and forced the monotonous weather within him to change.

After accepting the tiny nation into his life, the forest clad nation slowly found himself morphing. Slowly obtaining a sense of peace he thought he had lost forever. That wasn't all, though, and Switzerland was more than aware of the feelings he had begun to develope for his adopted younger sister. Becoming obvious to all of the uncharacteristic things he had done for her.

Most people might think that a hairbow and half-hearted teachings were nothing to get worked up over, but Switzerland knew himself too well for that. He was a stingy, thrifty perfectionist, so why had he gone out of his way to buy a silk hairpiece- something completely unnecessary- for her? Not only was it useless, it was expensive. So why? Why hadn't he taught her everything he knew about artillery when he conducted her lessons? She would learn to protect herself, and he would be able to go back into solo neutrality once more. So why? Why, why, why? Switzerland had pondered these questions, pretending to be ignorant of their answers, but, subconsciously, he knew only to well why: he didn't want her to leave.

The Purchase of the Present had been a subtle act of bribery, one that Switzerland himself hadn't realised he had been meaning to commit. The Lack of Teaching was to prevent Liechtenstein from growing strong enough to stop relying on her older brother, which would eventually lead to independence. Annoyingly, however, he had ignored those previously-thought-preposterous prepositions until he couldn't lie to himself any longer.

Most nights, Switzerland hardly slept, choosing instead to watch over the young lady as she slept. Her even, quiet breathing and her kind, peaceful expression when she slept soothed him. And, so, it was on a night like that that he finally acknowledged his affections for her. For the one he held closer than anyone else.

Now, as the Swiss man helped the young nation up for their journey home-him wearing a crown made personally for him-he found himself coming to terms with another ridiculous notion. He never wanted to release her hand. Firmly holding onto her, he actually allowed himself to pray that they might end up together. But the man knew that the world was not a fairytale, and that praying for that was like wishing for rain as he stood in a desert: a desperation which was impossible to fulfill. One day, she would leave him and go off on her own. Then, he would find that, once again, he had misplaced his trust and, this time, his love. This was a fact, he knew. But, frankly, he didn't care. For, if she was lying when she said she loved him, then he wanted her to lie for a few more hours. Liechtenstein was his heaven, and heaven was something Switzerland was certain was out of his reach.

_Years after..._

She didn't leave. Opportunities presented themselves countless of times, but she never took them. Instead, she decided to lay her fate and life into his hands; and, as Switzerland watched Liechtenstein walk down the aisle toward him, clothed in white with slightly flushed cheeks, he suddenly realised that heaven didn't seem so far away anymore.

**Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me besides the idea.**

**A.N.: Hello, and thank you for reading this fanfiction. Not my best, I know, and I humbly apologise to Susanrocksy for producing this atrocity. I'm really sorry!**

**Moving on, I'll be elaborating on the form here. It would be best to explain like this:**

**Name: Susanrocksy**

**Pairing: SwissLiech**

**Dark/Light: Light (Genre: hurt/comfort)**

**Number: 21 (Song: A Drop in the Ocean by Ron Pope)**

**Get it? The dark/light is what decides the genres,which have been split accordingly. Mind you, some genres are in both. Meanwhile, the number is what decides which song I'll be basing/deriving my story from. That's basically all there is to it. I know it sucked, so I'm very sorry! Please give me another chance and request! (Bows) Thank you for reading!**


	3. fanofmusic9292: RomaKraine

**Name**:** fanofmusic9292**

**Pairing: RomaKraine **

**Light/Dark: Light (Genre-Drama, I think... Not so sure.)**

**Number: 59 ('****_Angel With a Shotgun' _****by The Cab)**

* * *

Some might have dubbed the pale, fanged Romanian silly for throwing himself into a war he could have avoided with ease. If they heard that he was doing it all for the sake of fickle _love__,_ of all things, they might have even become enraged; though him a fool, even. Those who judged him as such, however, would be the real fools-idiots who only pretended to know him. Romania knew fully well that, if love were a fight, he would have gladly died with his heart on the trigger of a gun. Anything, to keep her safe.

_Many years back..._

"Are you an imbecile?!"

Dressed in the scarlet robes of his army, Romania had faced the wrath of his boss; his matching crimson pools ablaze with an unshakable resolve. Naturally, he was obvious to the fact that him suddenly expressing a desire to betray his allies and join the opposing armies would not be taken very well by his boss; but, honestly, he was too fed up to care. He had had enough of being forced to hurt her.

Massaging his sweaty temples, the newly elected Romanian leader regained control over his sharp, scalding emotions. Having to deal with an issue like that _certainly_ wasn what was going through his mind when he thought of the first act of his reign. It was preposterous!

Looking at the usually carefree nation being so serious, however, must have rattled him slightly; because he found himself actually discussing it with the said nation instead of simply dismissing it, as he should have rightfully done.

"Vladimir," he said, "Doing this will begin another war. A war within yourself. Are you truly prepared to face that?"

"Yes, Sir," came the instantaneous reply.

That direct, straightforward answer caused the aged man to skeptically arch his brow. Was this really the dreamer of a nation, Romania?

"Before you start a war, Vladimir, you better know what you're fighting for. Do you?"

"Of course, Sir."

"Well, let's hear it, then. This reason of yours."

"Sir, you've seen the state of our nation at the hands of our current allies. _My _state. You've seen the ruin and broken lives all this needless killing has done. The people of Romania can't stand or afford living like this any-"

"And you presume that switching sides will ease their suffering?!"

"It is what they want!"

Romania had yelled in return, but he could see where his boss was going with that outburst. He, too, had lost many loved ones who could never be brought back. Should they have chosen the opposing side from the beginning, however, those lives could possibly have been saved. To suggest it now, after their demise, was just... Cruel. Cruel and nearly hopeless. Romania had dug deep into that war. Almost _too_ deep. Should they have switched sides now, there was a high chance that the enemy might just decide to kill them. But he wouldn't give up. Not yet.

Nonetheless, things were getting dangerously out of hand, and Romania could feel himself becoming all the more impatient as each second passed. To his defence, it wasn't his own fury he was experiencing. More often than not, he was a good-natured nation. _This_, was the bottled up rage of his people, and, apparently, his boss realised this; appearing taken aback by the hat wearing country's unexpected retaliation.

The temporary moments of thick, awkward silence was eventually broken by Romania's boss."That _is _the truth, isn't it?" Asked the Romanian leader, his shoulders sagging in defeat. Romania himself had often made the best of decisions for himself before, so the novice ruler decided to place his faith in him.

"The only truth," responded Romania promptly, his voice still remained steely cold; but his blood-red orbs revealed all the gratitude he attempted to hide. Saluting with a firm, "Thank you, Sir," Romania turned around to leave; but was halted by the raspy voice of his boss, which he was seriously beginning to dislike, by that time.

"Vladimir,"

Stiffening, certain that his leader was about to change his mind, the nation turned back with a hesitant, inquiring, "Sir?"

"This isn't just about the people, is it?"

Taken entirely by surprise, Vladimir's honest face presented all there was to know. A faint, pinkish hue descended upon his cheeks, and his jaw fell slack, showing off his tiny, yet sharp, fangs.

Chuckling lowly, the Romanian ruler shuffled a few of his documents absentmindedly while mischieviously asking, "What's she like?"

At first, Romania contemplated on denying the accusations, but he knew that his boss was much more perceptive than he gave him credit for. So, with a reluctant sigh, the casually eccentric nation took a moment to picture her.

Cropped strands of wheat threads made up her hair, a cyan hairband unnecessarily adorning it. Her eyes... Held more depth and compassion than the deepest of oceans, their sky-blue tinge able to convey the eternity of love she held for people. As for her figure, it was the most beautiful of their kind, neither too thin nor too large. She was, in his eyes, as close to perfection as anybody could be.

So, he gave the most accurate description he could of her.

"She's everything I have. All that I adore."

Thus, the Romanian placed himself in a world of pain, first enduring his unofficial civil war, and then gave himself up to the woman he loved's brother; who kept an extremely watchful eye on him. The pain was on the verge of being unbearable, but he paid it no heed. He had thrown away his faith to become her knight. No way would he give up before the war had been won by him.

Eventually, the Russian man did decide that his Romanian prisoner was trustworthy, and released him. The moment Romania stepped out into the deliciously glaring sunlight, he was ambushed by a tearful heap of a person. After he escaped from their bone-crushing grip, Romania realised with a stunned, breathless murmur just who it was.

"I-Irunya...?"

Large, innocent orbs, filled with liquefied diamonds, staring up at him answered his question. Having forgotten-or, perhaps, stopped caring- about the cautious Russian's presence, Romania lost all sense of his composure and discarded his pride.

The Romanian flung his arms around the weeping Ukrainian lady, simply wanting to enjoy the sensation of having her in his protective embrace. Of seeing her again without any order of damaging her fragile heart. The two were soon roughly separated by Russia, who threateningly muttered, "It's thanks to Big Sister that you're free, Romania, but don't think I wouldn't throw you back in, _**da**_** (yes)**?"

Surprised Romania cast a curious look at the Ukrainian, but she had been too busy attempting to get Russia away from him. So he simply nodded.

Years after the dastardly war passed, with Romania and his second allies' victory; the cloaked nation finally found the courage and opportunity to ask Ukraine the question which had been plaguing him for all that time.

The two were sitting in a field, surrounded by the tragic beauty of blooming flowers on memorials; when the Romanian looked towards the soft, gentle lady and asked her why she asked for his freedom during the war. The place they were required respectful honesty for all those who suffered and died during the genocidal tragedy. The tragedy that was largely his fault.

"Huh...? Because I think you're a good boy, Vladimir," Ukraine said in mild amusement, as though the answer should have been perfectly clear. Smirking, Romania leaned in and cupped her face. Slowly and purposefully, he said, "Well, you're obviously mistaken my dear..." Then he pulled away with a leap and pulled up his coat so it covered his entire face except his gleaming ruby eyes. "For I am a vampire!"

After taking a second to absorb the corny joke, they both broke down into fits of uncontrollable laughter; with Ukraine shushing them in between breaths because they were in the presence of the deceased. Eventually, they fell silent, and Romania allowed her to catch her breath back afore posing another question.

"Irunya," he said, his voice tainted with unusual seriousness, "Seriously, why did you do it? I hurt you so much back then, and I caused nearly all of... This." The Romanian gestured vaguely at the gravestones, his eyes downcast as though afraid to hear the answer. He may have hid his guilt from others, but he never truly had forgiven himself for all those lives he took.

Another silence descended, before Ukraine gently grasped his hands and forced him to look at her. Crystal clear, her eyes full of insistent resolve, she spoke.

"Vladimir, I requested for your freedom because I trusted you. And I still do. You may have been misguided at first, but you still found your way home. When you were with them, you were their most loyal supporter, and that was all it took to tell me that you were truly good at heart. I... Have doubted you once, Vladimir, and that hurt me so much more than anything you had done before. More than anything anyone has ever done. So, although you may be named a devil by the rest of the world, I will always believe you to be an angel. My angel."

**"Мій**** ангел** (My angel)." The old nickname resounded firmly and comfortingly within Romania's ears and, quite before he knew it, he felt his eyes well up with tears. He had injured her to the point of unforgivable, but, here she was, telling him that she still forgave him. Still loved him.

All the pain and anguish he had kept hidden during that blasted war came rushing back to him like a tidal wave. That loneliness, how he would scream in secret whenever he had been ordered to injure her, or even England or France, the ones responsible for him becoming a nation, in the first place. Even the way he used to take it out upon himself whenever he did. The pain he felt, however, was infinitesmal compared to what he had placed her through and, yet, she still forgave him.

Just as he had done for her all those years ago, Ukraine pulled Romania into a hug, resting her head on top of his and allowed him to cry; whispering sweet nothings as he continuously begged for forgiveness. They stayed like that for a long while, both silently wishing that time would stop, and leave them with that sense of forgiving, revealing bliss.

Romania was the one who pulled away, his eyes long dry. To make such a prideful nation to show such weakness was simply another feat of Ukraine's. Upon inspection, it became clear that Ukraine had fallen into a content slumber. Chuckling, Romania shifted her head onto his shoulders and looked squarely at a gravestone.

"Irunya is the real angel, I know," he said to the tomb, "But if I'm to be her angel, as she says, then, I promise you... I will do everything in my power to keep her safe, regardless of whether heaven will or won't take me back."

Then, almost as though sealing his vow, the Romanian dropped a clumsy, quivering kiss on the sleeping girl's rose petal lips; soundlessly thinking, "For my heaven is here, and I will become an angel with a shotgun to protect her."

**Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.**

**A.N.: Sorry it's not so great, Feli. I tried! :p Anyway, I found out I have 1,303 songs on me, so any number between 1 and 1,303 is fine. Thank you for reading!**


	4. Susanrocksy: SpaBel

**(PM-ed to me)**

**Name: Susanrocksy**

**Pairing: SpaBel**

**Dark/Light: Dark (Slightly angst with hints of psychology, I think)**

**Number: 46 ('All Men Are Pigs' by Studio Killers [I wouldn't really recommend listening to it while you read this time because the song isn't sad or anything. More like triumphant.)**

**Warning: Contains slight mentions of sexual intercourse. If you're uncomfortable, skim through the last three or so chapters. Also is slightly sexist. Sorry.**

* * *

Deep within the den of flashing red lights, a heartbroken lady sat, her disheveled blond strands haphazardly framing her darkened face.

For the umpteenth time, she took an unusually unladylike swig from the filthy, cracked glass in front of her. The liquid suppressed within the unhygenic walls bore suspicious resemblance to urine in both colour and, guessedly, taste. Yet, she downed it at an unhealthy pace, for it was a distraction. Right, a distraction...

Belgium staggered into the drunken paradise she often found an odd refuge in. Somehow, its nauseating, flaring lights and heavy air, mixed with the equally unappetizing smells of alcohol and vomit, seemed to always make her feel better. That, although another one of her relationships had failed, at least she wasn't as pathetic as the addicted people who dwelled inside that wretched bar. It was either because of that, or she was too preoccupied with holding down her lunch to focus on anything else.

Seating between two snoring drunkards, the Belgian thickly ordered her usual. The slow poison came ironically quickly, and she hurriedly took a tentative sip. Which turned into a mouthful, which turned into a long chug. As always, after finishing a glass, she ordered more and more in a fruitless attempt to get drunk.

Once more, Belgium wondered of she was insane for attempting to drown herself and all her sorrows. She knew only too well that the intoxicating drink didn't bury memories. It unearthed them.

Old ones, which she had flung to the deepest parts of her mind, always came first; then, came the more recent ones, and, finally, the latest of them all, hurting and stinging a little more than the others had. But the pain passed. It always did, and, should it stay, the rotten liquid would do its bloody job and numb it, if only a little.

First, came the German, a strong, tough man who, unintentionally, snared her heart when he saved her from a band of pesky ruffians. Naturally, she had had the situation completely under control, but he still helped, ending with the heroic words, "Watch yourself more carefully next time. It's a form of foul play when you hear them say they'll buy you a drink, _ja (yes)_?" So, they fell in love and fell out, when he proclaimed their relationship was interfering with his work.

_**Throb.**_

Next, was the Englishman. He was serious, yet adorable, especially when he attempted ignoring his affections for her. Nevertheless, they eventually became a pair and, much more quickly, broke apart. Belgium realised it was hopeless the same time she realised that the girl he had tried denying his love for wasn't her, but a tiny Monegasque. The forest eyed man had asked to break it off the same day Belgium had witnessed him blushing and stuttering while he spoke to the said Monegasque; the gestures which most obviously revealed his adoration for someone. The gestures he never showed in front of her.

_**Prick.**_

Following suit was the young, ambitious one from America, naturally, wearing the same kind of specs as the sex of men. The Englishman's brother. His _brother. _The American had waited long and hard for the Belgian's heart to heal afore making his move; coating his voice with the sweet, honey doused words of, "I'm the boy who will heal you, _fix _you." Thus, she fell head-over-heels in love once more, again with the firm belief that he truly was the one. That is, before he flew back to America, leaving her in a stunned heartbreak.

The American had been the youngest of all the men shed dated. He had been living the high-life with a free-spirited soul, never being one to be tied down by a steady relationship. Still, though, was it too much to expect a sign of farewell before he migrated, permanently, back to his homeland? It didn't matter, anyway... He had disappointed her, vanishing and leaving her to find out about his migration from his other friends. Just as he had with a paeticular Vietnamese lady he had known. Belgium knew she should have known better, she should have known...

_**Pang.**_

Thus, in the same, tiresome fashion, the memories came flooding back, growing more painful by the second. Why was she such a fool for the fickle, so-called 'love'? All it ever seemed to bring her was a series of pain and sorrow. Nonetheless, she couldn't stay away from the prospect of a hopeful romance; and, so, she endured the pain, blindly placing her pure trust and faith in each man she fell for. And, each time, she was cold-heartedly betrayed, thrown out like a sack of rotten tomatoes.

"_Tomatoes."_ It was here. Pounding, piercing, burning pain. The last and final memory of the night. The memory with her last lover, the kindest, sweetest of them all. The Spaniard.

The day she probably began falling for the Spaniard was the first and only day Belgium hadn't fled to the bar after a break up. Antonio had found her before she could. Being the closest of friends and characteristically kind, he naturally insisted on knowing what had placed his favourite female in such a state of despair. After hearing her story, which she barely strung into words, the Spanish man nearly left his home with the sole intent of pulverising the "bastard," as Spain had put it. The only reason he hadn't done so was because Belgium had clutched at him and begged him not to. That, and, she strongly suspected, because Romano was home that night.

So, Spain took care of Belgium that night, forcing her to stay over. He cuddled her on his couch, ignoring his work just to let her cry and comfort her. When she had worn herself out, he had delicately touched his lips to her own, presuming she had fallen asleep. But she hadn't been, and that was when she began questioning her feelings toward Antonio.

Belgium stayed in Spain's care for some time, assisting him with Romano, afore she she gained the courage to ask him how he felt about her. His response, skillfully coated with blank innocence, was simple, and delivered with a pleasant grin.

"Hm? Well, of course, I love you, Belle!"

Those were the words that triggered the switch, and the two started to date. She had fallen so in love with his charms, she hadn't even realised how he never made any movements onto her, besides the nonchalant peck on the cheek every so often. Even then, it was hesitant and almost guilty. Before long, however, she began to see that he only kissed her whenever she helped out with taking care of Romano.

It wasn't long before Belgium had been reduced to begging for Spain's affection, doing _everything _ for him; be it cooking, or even dealing with his financial difficulties. Like every smooth operator, he never asked for help, just 'rewarded' her afterwards. Most of the time, it was stunned smiles and worried protests. Other times, it was dinner, hugs, or, occasionally, brushes against her cheek. She never noticed, however, and continued dismissing her brother's desperate observations. Well, that was the case, until she overheard him and his friends one fine day.

"Hey, Antonio, how serious are you about Belgium, anyway?"

"Serious?"

"_Oui_ (Yes). As far as I can see, she's the only one taking things seriously."

"I really don't know what you two are going on about..."

"Oh, come on! You don't need to be as awesome as me to know what we're talking about! What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On. With. You and Belgium?!"

"Huh...? Belle and I? She's very helpful to have around, I suppose...?"

"Y-You... Antonio, don't you love her? Or are you only keeping her around because she's of use?"

Belgium didn't stick around to hear the answer to Francis's incredulous question. She felt as though she already knew it. She had _ always_ known it.

_**Bang!**_

There. That was the last of her pathetic memoirs, and it hit her like a poison bullet which purposely missed her heart just to make the pain worse. The glass was nearly pushed over the side as Belgium doubled over the rottingcountertop; her brain slamming mercilessly against her cranium and her stomach churning as though in a sea storm. Nearly, very nearly, she allowed her bitter tears to spill over. But, no. No more crying. Not for Antonio, not for any other man, ever.

"All men are pigs," swore Belgium internally, "Life is no fairytale, and, I know, every man that I've met, till this day had a curly tail. Antonio was just one of them."

She wrenched her fingers below her now fiery emerald orbs, filled with an odd sort of resolve. "My logic will prevail. I definitely won't be fooled again." The Belgian marched into the lavatory, producing a small pouch. "Instead, I will do the fooling."

When Belgium reappeared, it was with glamour and picturesque. She had applied on her make up, glitter, even. So, when the drunken lights swept across her, she simply glowed with radiance. Her eyes seemed to mesmerise you in their sea of chartreuse, and, with every step, her golden locks swayed enchantingly to a rhythm of their own.

"No more. No more idiotic, ludicrous 'falling in love'," Belgium vowed, as usual. This time, though, something had snapped within her, and she appeared almost malevolent. Indeed, she looked bewitching, but everything just seemed so fake. As though she had locked her true soul away in chains of misery and was forcing out something else...

That night, in a cheap, dank hotel room somewhere, a certain cat-like lady slept with a "pig". One she didn't know the name of and, he, only knowing her as "Emma". Not Belle. Belle was the naive girl who still believed in the magic of love. The one who had been foolish enough to believe any of the men she dated before actually loved her. Ha! She wasn't Belle. Not anymore.

Or, so she wanted to , on that night, snaked with alcohol and estranged lust, Belgium knew.

She knew that her moans were really wails of despair. She knew that the sweat that trickled down her velvet cheeks were actually tears. And she knew that, no matter how long she tried to delude her eye, the only face her mind could picture was the treacherous Spaniard's.

"Treacherous"? No... Spain... Had Antonio truly ever proclaimed her as his most loved one? He said he loved her, yes, but what sort of love did he mean?

And, then, it dawned upon the exhausted Belgian. Antonio had loved her. Not as a lover, but as a most faithful companion. Like a fool, she had leapt to conclusions, forcing her love unto him. And he, the softest, most gentle of nations, had gone along with it in order not to hurt her. Antonio never uttered his love for her in a lover's voice because he never could. But he had hurt himself playing in pretense simply to protect her heart from being brokenany ffurther. Foolishly, without ever listening or thinking properly, she had accused him of a betrayal impossible to commit and given herself to someone she didn't even know, much less love.

That was when, as sunlight fluttered through the broken window, casting light upon the single, solitary figure clamping her fingers over her eyes; Belgium cried.

_"You're only keeping her around because she's useful?"_

_"No, I do love her. That's why I'm holding her close even though I cannot give her the love she needs to heal. I love her, so I can only do this much."_

**Disclaimer: Everything belongs to their respective owners, thank you.**

**A.N.: Well, first comes the important bit. I forgot to mention that you could request for trios, too. Just don't forget to mention if you want two of the trio to end up together. Eg:**

**Name: Sancho ni Munraito**

**Pairing: PruHun + Frying Pangle**

**And so on. PruHun will be the eventual pairing, in this case, whereas Frying Pangle will be featured. If you want, you could have neither of the two men/women in the trio to end up with the 'protagonist'. Eg:**

**Name: Sancho ni Munraito**

**Pairing: RomaHun + Frying Pangle**

**So, although Frying Pangle will be involved, Hungary will just go for Romania at the end. Things like that. That's it, I guess. Other part isn't important.**

**Oh, gosh, I'm not even being modest when I say that this one really sucked. Honestly,I've never written something so corny, cheesy, or predictable in my life. Gosh, I'm so sorry...**


End file.
